Would You Miss Me Today, If I Met You Tomorrow?
by KaliTracer
Summary: It's not a surprise that Aramis and Porthos are matched, and D'artagnan is completely right before he even sees their wrists. Though from the way Athos keeps his wrist covered and scowls when people bring up being Matched, D'artagnan figures if Athos was Matched that person is long gone. About this however, he is really wrong.


The fission from the first day with the famous Musketeers is still coursing in his veins, when D'artagnan sits down with Porthos and Aramis for a drink. Saving Athos…hell, meeting Athos that day had been sending his feelings racing all day. Part of his mind was whispering 'match' but he tried to block it out. He'd heard all sorts of stories about what it was like to meet your Match. The excitement, and the passion. D'artagnan wasn't sure what was causing the nervous bubbling in his stomach or the way his whole body wanted to shiver at the thought of Athos. Several times he had debated with himself to go over there, Athos sat apart since his release from prison, and bluntly ask to see his Mark.

Instead, he had tried to not seem so anxious and simply asked, "What's his problem?"

"There was a woman once, but she's gone now," Aramis says. D'artagnan feels the fission in his body turn cold and settle uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

"His Match?"

"One presumes," Porthos answers.

D'artagnan feels the cold spread throughout his body. He wants to shiver now, but not in the same manner as before. He feels ill at the thought of looking down and seeing his Mark go black, signaling the loss of his Match. Clearing his throat, he takes a sip of the wine.

"I suppose everyone suffers their marks going black eventually," he says.

Porthos makes a low wounded noise and reaches out to grab Aramis' wrist. D'artagnan eyes widen for a split second before everything clicks into place. The ease between them had made it seem likely, and now he could see it so much clearer. Aramis put his hand over Porthos' and soothed the hand with his thumb.

"Hush, I'm right here," Aramis says in a low voice even though his eyes are suspiciously glossy. He kisses Porthos' knuckles and they go back to chatting.

Nothing more is said about Athos, and eventually D'artagnan makes his way back to his bed at Constance's home. He lays awake longer than he wants, holding his wrist over his face as he studies the pattern that he knows so well. A small part of his brain wonders what it would have been like if Athos had indeed been his Match. If he would have been loving and doting or secretive and teasing. It makes him ache with the thought even as he drifts to sleep convincing himself that his true Match will be even better than the Musketeers. He hopes he has the strength to hold onto the lie.

Time with the Musketeers slips by, and D'artagnan eventually can look at Athos without wondering about his Mark. It helps that Athos constantly has his wrist covered, no matter the weather or situation. He receives looks, some pitying, others harsh, and D'artagnan struggles with the urge to defend the older man.

He's almost forgotten that first night's fantasy of Athos being his Match. Some days it is easier than others, as the residual feeling of heat and want and Match will sometimes be too strong for him to believe he is completely over the thought of Athos being his.

Still, D'artagnan has to focus on becoming a Musketeer. Every day the goal of joining their ranks, of being able to stand side by side with Athos and be able to protect him, overrides any other thought of searching for his Match or returning to his farm.

Practice has consumed his time, and D'artagnan finds it easier to not think about Athos at night when he can't even wait to pull off his boots before he's falling on his bed to sleep. However, during one practice with Aramis, the thoughts about Matches and Marks all comes flooding back, all due to one wrong move and Aramis' too-sharp sword.

"Ow!" D'artagnan exclaims, jerking his arm back to see the faint line of blood welling up. D'artagnan deflects Aramis' next move despite the pain in his arm but took a step out of line when he felt the blood begin to run down his arm.

"Damnit, Aramis, you're suppose to be training him, not injuring him," Athos says, standing and moving over to them.

"It's fine," D'artagnan says, but it is overridden by Porthos speaking up.

"He'll get worse cuts in battle if can't defend himself against Aramis." Athos ignores the other man and takes up D'artagnan's arm to examine it himself.

"Are you insinuating that I'm not proficient at the sword?" Aramis asks his lover, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I do know one sword you are proficient at using," Porthos says, a dirty grin lighting up his face.

D'artagnan looks ups at Athos' face since he's gone still as he stares at the bleeding arm. Examining his friend, D'artagnan realizes that Athos isn't looking at the wound, instead his face is completely focused on the red lines and the pattern they create on his wrist.

Blood has covered part of it, but Athos' thumb keeps wiping it away, like he's seeing something that can't possibly be real.

In the background, Aramis has tackled Porthos to the ground and they are rolling around making a mess of themselves as they half-fight and half-rut against each other. The remaining two Musketeers haven't moved.

"Athos?" D'artagnan finally asks, when the other man hasn't even blinked for over a minute.

Jerking his head up, Athos studies D'artagnan's face for a moment before yanking his hand away.

"I apologize, D'artagnan. You will have to get Aramis to bind the wound. I must go."

Those are the only words he gets before D'artagnan finds himself watching Athos run off like all his ghosts were after him at once.  
>For a moment he can only stare after him as Porthos finally pins Aramis to the ground only to look around and realize they were missing someone.<p>

"Hey, where the devil did Athos go?"

D'artagnan only wishes he knew.


End file.
